November 2011

November 30, 2011

For some time now a post has been sitting in draft, staring out contentiously each time I log on, one in which I set out to explore the drudgery of cooking for four. That wasn't the original intention - not at all - it was intended as a helpful guide for feeding teenagers (boys, in particular) good, simple vegetarian food, a skill I've been honing for the past ten years which makes me something of an expert, even if I do say so myself, but about halfway through I stopped. I was making the task sound abominable.

A few weeks later I found myself cooking alone. Bliss.

These days, I cook for myself at least one night a week. It's a task I relish, a chance to cook the kind of food I like. I almost always eat well, but even I - a cooking obsessive - am not immune to repeating the sameold, sameold.

Cooking for yourself should be a joy, not a drag even though that is what we are led to believe the task should be, but it should also, as my friend Jo says, be about keeping up standards. A little bit of self-respect, a little moment to step away from things and treat yourself well, to feed whatever it is that your good self requires. A meal that is, if you get my drift, about more than mere fueling alone. Kathryn came along with another excellent idea for An Honest Kitchen - Cooking for One - at just the right time. All of us will cook for ourselves at some stage in life, for all the different reasons that exist, and all of us will need a little inspiration from time to time.

I'm really proud of the work we've done on this edition; the 3 recipes are delicious (there is a KILLER dressing in there that I've worked into at least one meal a week since) but there are also lots of thoughts about how to make leftovers into something fresher, on how to eat well. But the thing I'm most proud of is that it's a budget-friendly edition, so that eating solo will not, if you follow Kathryn's advice, cost you the earth.

Also, I DREW! Very nearly fainted when I realised that I'd enjoyed it too...

And so, here she is: An Honest Kitchen, Cooking for One. It'll set you back a mere $3 (AU). TOTALLY budget friendly.

November 20, 2011

Look. People always love pastry, but let me tell you this. People will love you, much, much more if you make the pastry yourself. Shortcrust is easy, and I reckon that being able to make the stuff by hand is an excellent skill to have in the kitchen, one worth acquiring for the way it makes people feel about you if nothing else.

Two things: butter must be fridge-cold, and, more importantly, the less you touch it all the better. Cold cold cold.

Rub 40z of butter and 6oz of flour together in a big bowl. Do so quickly, as Tamasin Day-Lewis says, "as though the butter and flour are hot sand". She is right on - it's exactly the action you need. When it looks like chunky breadcrumbs, add a tablespoon of iced water (with cubes from the freezer). Mix with a spoon. Add more water, but more water equals shrinkage so less, obviously, is more. Do it s-l-o-w-l-y. Do it carefully. Things should be just coming together. Make into a ball, cover and refrigerate for 30 mins. Good for tarts both big and small.

To make jam tarts preheat your oven to 180 C, putting a tray in to heat up at the same time. Roll out the pastry*. Butter a muffin/cupcake/gem-scone tin. Cut circles of pastry using the rim of tumbler or whatever will allow a generous overhang on your chosen tin. Dollop heaped teaspoons of jam into the hollows. Tamasin suggests raspberry or apricot are best and she, whose idea this is in the first place, is, yet again, right on. When the oven's ready, put the tarts in on top of the tray and bake for about 15-20 minutes. They are gorgeous.

*rolling pastry out in an even shape can be a tricky job. Delia describes the action perfectly (point 8 - scroll down). Patience, as with most things, is key, and that quarter turn stuff really does work. These days I look upon it as a little moment to enjoy using my hands, free from typing and such. Pastry, like bread, is a bit like craft.

November 15, 2011

we're working away on another edition of an honest kitchen, one i'm actually rather excited about as kathryn and i are trying new things, giving it all a fresh new look. we decided on using film for the photographs because, honestly, apart from the occasional picture taken with my phone (not an iPhone) it's how photographs get made 'round here.

an outtake, this, but one i've a particular affection for. stay tuned.

November 02, 2011

the first thing andrea did upon arrival was to get podding. i grabbed the cumin and ground it none too finely as she prepped her broad beans - picked just an hour or so before - and we chatted, as folk who grow and cook do, about our respective gardens, about composting, about what we've been doing in our kitchens. swapping fresh broad beans for dried, andrea's bessara was completely different to any i've had, whipped to a buttery paste of soft jade, the peaks dressed in the bowl with a heavy dusting of paprika, falling in red clumps in the hollows, just the way i like. we ate outside, feet stamping against the cold, dipping and cooing over the flavour. cultivating gardeners as friends seems to happen effortlessly these days. i feel inordinately lucky.

my own broad bean crop went in too late - end of july, she notes to self - planted out in surprisingly organised rows by the front door, something i vow to do yearly from now on, and in a mass planting, one week later, out the back in the kitchen garden proper. they are thriving, fixing nitrogen to the soil, standing hip-high and looking gorgeous, but i have my doubts. when d. saw them a few weeks ago, he had his, but i can and indeed do live, as ever, in hope.

you live a little. you learn a tonne.

it occurred to me this weekend that i've not shared much in the way of progress of late here. correcting that now. above is how things looked in the kitchen garden one sunday late in september. the broad beans (far left) have grown a lot since then, and the rhubarb (front left) is coming along brilliantly after being ruthlessly divided mid-winter. changes and additions you'll need filling in on soon, but for now, this rather bad 'blad shot's the best i can offer.

i've just felt so...busy. i'm no longer afraid to tell you it's been a tough year, yet somehow, in and among it all, my cooking mojo returned. it'd been gone for so long that i'd almost forgotten just how good cooking can make one feel.

the garden is full of pleasant surprises. the rocket has grown hilariously huge, some stalks almost as thick as my wrist, sturdy bases amid a sea of edible white blossom. i like that it bolts just so. the coriander is about to follow suit, and the balm that i cursed for its invasive bastardry so often last year is, this, wonderful in all manner of things that mint might go in to, just gorgeous in salsa verde. i've learned to tame it, to rip it out by the handful, knowing full-well it will come back. relaxing about the weeds means less planting, i've decided, so now we just go with the flow. i made a salad with tiny blades of sheep sorrel from the front lawn this weekend as if to prove just that. it was very good.

but what, after all that, of andrea's bessara you ask?

andrea's bessara, a moroccan broad bean dip

simmer 2 mugs-worth of shelled broad beans in a saucepan for about 10 minutes. chop 2 cloves of garlic and grind a little cumin - a teaspoon or so - while they cook. drain the beans. whiz in a food processor with the garlic and cumin, about 1/3 of a cup of olive oil and thin, if need be, with a little stock (powdered stock, thank god) until the consistency of hummus. season to taste, whiz again, then dust liberally with sweet paprika (so pretty against the green) and eat with a trace of warmth still clinging to it.

November 01, 2011

been making marmalade. tamasin day-lewis is your woman here, and even if all the bossy, pop-it-in-the-warming-oven-of-your-aga stuff irritates, forge on regardless. i used navel oranges, so sub whatever citrus you like; it is the best marmalade i've ever tasted, let alone made. feel like a genius.

the recipe on the telegraph's web page is as it is written in her bible but with one notable exception: in print she implores you to "not fall at the last hurdle" with the final 30 minute wait. it's key, i swear.